Five Dead Canaries (5 page)

‘Do you still think someone had a grudge against one of those women?’

‘Yes, I do – against one or all of them. It may be some crank who objects to the very idea of women doing jobs always done by men in the past.’

‘There’s another way of looking at this,’ mused Keedy.

‘Is there?’

‘What if the real target was the landlord? Somebody could have fallen out with him or been banned from the pub. When he blew up that outhouse, he might have been completely unaware of the fact that someone was inside.’

‘It’s an idea worth considering, Joe, but there’s one thing against it.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Anyone who hated Mr Hubbard enough to plant a bomb on the premises would surely want to cause maximum damage. He’d blow up the pub itself,’ said Marmion, thoughtfully. ‘And I reckon he’d do it after dark so that no customers would be injured. If the landlord was the target, the best time to set off an explosion would be when he’s completely off guard, snoring in bed beside his wife.’

‘I still think we shouldn’t rule him out, Harv.’

‘Agreed – we keep every option on the table.’

‘That brings us back to the five victims.’

‘Yes,’ sighed Marmion, ‘and it confronts us with a massive problem. You know how people are when they’re bereaved. They withdraw into themselves. The parents of those girls won’t like it if we start prying into the private lives of their daughters – well, look at the trouble we had with Mrs Radcliffe. She was very defensive. Like her, the others will just want to be left alone to mourn. We’ll be seen as intruders.’

‘There’s nothing new in that.’ Keedy was struck by a sudden thought. ‘Let’s suppose you’re right, Harv, and that one of those six girls
was
the
target.’ He turned to Marmion. ‘What if it had been Maureen Quinn? Amazingly, she survived. When he discovers that, will the bomber have another crack at her?’

Though they tried to relax, Ellen and Alice were on tenterhooks. Every so often, one of them would go to the window and peer through the curtains. Marmion had rung home from Uxbridge police station. The two women tried to work out how long it would take a car to drive back to the house, assuming that it was keeping to the speed limit. Because her knowledge of geography was poor, Ellen’s estimate was wildly optimistic. During her time with the Women’s Emergency Corps, Alice had driven a lorry all over London and well beyond it. She had a clearer idea of how long it took to get from place to place. She was nevertheless impatient and chafed at the delay. When they heard a car approach the house and slow to a halt, it was Alice who leapt to her feet and rushed to the door. She was in time to see the detectives getting out of the vehicle and ran into Keedy’s embrace.

‘I’m so glad you’re back at last,’ she said, breathlessly.

‘Sorry about this evening, Alice,’ he apologised.

‘There’ll be other times.’

She kissed him on the cheek, then became aware of her father standing there.

‘Don’t I get a welcome home?’ he asked with a slight edge.

‘Of course, you do,’ she said, hugging him. ‘Hello, Daddy.’

The car drove off and the three of them went into the house. Ellen collected a routine peck on the cheek from her husband then took him into the kitchen. Keedy and Alice followed them.

‘There’s a meal in the oven, if you’re not too tired to eat it,’ said Ellen. ‘And there’s more than enough for you, Joe.’

‘I’m starving,’ said Keedy.

‘We haven’t had a thing since we heard the news from Hayes,’ said Marmion, inhaling the aroma that came from the oven as Ellen opened the door. ‘That smells good. Thanks for having something ready for us, love.’

‘I know how hungry policemen can get.’

‘But where’ve you been?’ asked Alice. ‘And why did you go there? Tell me everything. I can’t wait to hear the details.’

‘They’re not very pleasant,’ warned her father.

‘Why is that, Daddy?’

He exchanged a glance with Keedy. ‘Let’s get some grub inside us first.’

‘I second that, Harv,’ said the other, rubbing his hands.

It was not long before all four of them were seated around the table. While Marmion and Keedy devoured their food, the women had yet another cup of tea. It was an odd situation but one which was likely to recur time and again now that Keedy was about to join the family. Ordinarily, Marmion would say very little to his wife about the cases on which he was working. He took special care to keep any horrific details from her but he could hardly do that now. Since his daughter was pressing him for information, Ellen was bound to hear it as well. She gave him an encouraging smile, as if indicating that she had no qualms about what he might say.

Choosing his words carefully, Marmion told them about the crisis that had made them hare off to Hayes in a fast car. Both women were appalled. The idea of one female victim was enough to upset them. The fact that five had been blown to pieces made them shudder. They found it difficult to imagine how gruesome the scene of the crime must have been. Alice was the first to recover from the shock. Ellen was numbed and left all the questions to her daughter.

‘Why would anyone want to murder some munition workers?’ she asked.

‘That’s not what they’ll be called in the papers,’ said her father. ‘They’ll be described as canaries. They’ll be robbed of their dignity and simply be lumped together as munitionettes.’

‘That’s terrible, Daddy. They were five separate individuals.’

‘We discovered that from the survivor,’ said Keedy. ‘She told us how different they all were from each other and Mrs Radcliffe – the mother of one of the girls – told us a little about her daughter. In the normal course of events, all six of them would probably never have been friends. Well,’ he corrected, ‘two of them might have been because they lived so close to each other in Uxbridge, but the rest were scattered all over the place in Hayes. What brought them together was the war.’

‘It brought them together, then killed them,’ remarked Ellen.

‘What a terrible way to lose their lives,’ said Alice, face taut. ‘They went off happily to a birthday party without realising that they were walking into a death trap. It’s dreadful. What kind of a monster could do such a thing?’ She swung round to face her father. ‘Do you have any idea who he could be?’

‘No, Alice,’ admitted Marmion, ‘but his signature tells us something about him. He’s cold, ruthless, calculating and has no concern for the value of human life. The chances are that he was ready to sacrifice innocent young women in order to kill the person he was really after.’

‘And who was that?’

‘We haven’t worked it out yet,’ said Keedy. ‘We’re still at a very early stage of the investigation.’

‘Needless to say,’ cautioned Marmion, ‘everything that we’ve told you has been confidential. Nothing – not a single word – must be repeated to anyone at work, Alice. When your colleagues know that
I’m in charge of the case, you’re bound to be asked. You must lie your head off.’

‘That’s not easy for someone as honest as her,’ said Ellen.

‘Yes, it is, Mummy,’ said Alice. ‘When I know how important it is to be discreet, I can be. I won’t tell a soul.’

Marmion put a hand on her arm. ‘Good girl.’

‘But that doesn’t mean I want to be kept in the dark from now on.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well,’ she said, eyes glistening with interest, ‘this case is fascinating. It’s all about six young women of my age or thereabouts. I have some idea of how they might think and act. It’s the one advantage I have over you and Joe. I don’t want to be co-opted on to the investigation – that would be impossible – but I would like to know about any developments. Who knows? I might be able to offer some useful ideas.’

Marmion was caught momentarily off balance and Keedy looked less than enthusiastic about her offer. Both of them were having second thoughts about the wisdom of discussing the case so freely with her. Alice wanted to be included. They traded a look of mild desperation, neither of them knowing quite what to say.

Alice was forceful. ‘What have you got against me?’ she demanded. ‘I might actually be able to help. I’m in the police force as well, remember.’

Since neither of his daughters was leaving the house that day, it was Eamonn Quinn who was the first to get up. He liked to get to the coal yard early so that he had the pick of the bags. After he’d had a swill in the kitchen sink, his face was relatively clean. It would be black by the time he came home in the evening. Like his elder daughter, he had a job that changed his colour completely. The difference was that Maureen’s yellow patina could not be washed off with cold water. On his visit to the privy, he had his first cigarette of the day and reflected on the distressing events at the Golden Goose. They’d give Maureen a worrying prominence. He’d feel the effects himself as his customers bombarded him on the doorstep with questions about what exactly had happened and how his daughter was coping with the fraught situation. It was the kind of interest that he’d never willingly seek. Others might bask in it but Quinn was a man who shunned attention.

By the time he returned to the kitchen, he found the kettle on the gas stove and his wife preparing his breakfast. Diane was still sleepy,
moving as if in a dream and yawning intermittently. She tried to shake herself fully awake.

‘It feels funny, doesn’t it?’ she said.

‘What does?’

‘Most mornings, Maureen would have left hours ago. She’d be at work before either of us got up. It seems strange having her still here.’

‘It’s not strange, Di, it’s necessary.’

‘I know that.’

‘She’s had a terrible time. She needs to recover.’

‘Maureen was shivering all over when I put her to bed last night.’

‘I blame
them
,’ said Quinn, curling a lip. ‘Those coppers were wrong to keep on at her like that. They wore the poor girl down.’

‘What do I do if they come back, Eamonn?’

‘Keep them away from her.’

‘But they’re from Scotland Yard.’

‘I don’t care where the buggers come from,’ he said, rancorously. ‘I don’t want them battering her with questions again. Maureen is not up to it.’

‘She’s stronger than she looks,’ said Diane, turning off the gas and pouring hot water into the teapot. ‘Working in that factory has made her grow up fast. Well, you’ve noticed it yourself. Maureen used to be very shy but she’s got a lot more confidence now.’

‘That doesn’t mean she’s up to being interrogated by those two.’

‘They need information, Eamonn.’

‘Whose side are you on?’ he snarled. ‘This is our daughter, Di, and we’ve got to protect her. You know what I think about coppers. Don’t let them into the house.’

‘What am I to say to them?’

‘Any excuse will do. Just get rid of them.’

‘I don’t want to get us into any trouble,’ she said, nervously.

‘Shut up and do as you’re told, woman.’ He sat down at the table. ‘And get on with my breakfast. I’ve got a hard day ahead. I need some grub inside me.’

Diane went through her usual routine, pouring his tea, cooking his food and setting it in front of him. All that Quinn did was to gobble it down in silence then end with his usual belch. He’d changed and his wife made allowances for it. He was never the most congenial of men but the war had made him even more churlish and self-centred. She put it down to the fact that their two sons had both enlisted and were facing unknown dangers at the front. Quinn missed them dreadfully. He was now the only man in the household. The balance had tilted sharply against him. Instead of being able to spend time with two strapping young men who shared his interests, he was stuck with a wife and two daughters and felt isolated. He still loved Diane after his own fashion but he made no attempt to show it, considering any display of affection to be somehow unmanly. What Maureen and Lily had to put up with was his uncertain temper and a series of gruff commands. Like their mother, they’d learnt to read the warning signals and keep out of his way.

‘I’m off,’ he announced, washing down his last mouthful of food with a swig of tea. ‘Expect me when you see me.’

‘Yes, Eamonn.’

‘And – at all costs – don’t let those coppers over the threshold.’

‘I’ll do my best.’

‘You’ll do as I bloody well say.’

On that truculent note, he hauled himself up and walked out. Diane heard him putting on his coat and his cap before letting himself out of the house. The door was slammed even harder than usual. Other wives
might have baulked at such brusque treatment but she was accustomed to it, always finding an excuse for her husband. It was not simply his underlying anxieties about their sons this time. The main cause of his anger, she told herself, was his concern for Maureen. Their elder daughter had escaped being blown up by the skin of her teeth. It was a shattering experience for her and Quinn was struggling to come to terms with it. As in all crisis situations, he reverted to aggression and bullying. His wife forgave him as a matter of course.

Diane had her own fears for Maureen. Just when the girl was starting to blossom and mature, she’d been thrown into disarray. There was no telling if she’d ever be quite the same again. She’d survived a disaster but would be scarred by it for life. It had already kept Diane awake in the small hours. It would, inevitably, cause Maureen nightmares. The loss of Agnes Collier would be particularly wounding because the two of them saw each other every day. A massive gap had suddenly opened up in Maureen’s life. Diane felt an urge to console her and went padding upstairs in her slippers, expecting to find her elder daughter lying in bed. When she tapped on the door and opened it, however, she was given a profound shock.

There was no sign of Maureen. Her mother flew into a panic. She searched the rest of the house in vain, recruiting Lily to help her and even dashing out into the tiny garden. It was bewildering. Without any explanation, Maureen had vanished.

Quick to criticise Marmion whenever the opportunity arose, Claude Chatfield had to acknowledge that the inspector knew how to control a press conference. Marmion remained calm and even-tempered throughout, winning the crime correspondents over by referring to each of them by their Christian names and producing the occasional quip.
He fed them enough information to fill their columns while holding back some significant details. Chatfield knew what those details were because he’d seen the full report that Marmion had put on his desk earlier that morning. He marvelled at the way that questions were fielded and answered. What irritated him was the exaggerated respect that everyone was showing Marmion. It was not always the case. During a previous investigation – the brutal murder of a conscientious objector – the newspapers had been highly critical of what they saw as inertia on the part of the police. Marmion had been the scapegoat. When both the crime and a subsequent murder were solved, however, he was given full credit and his reputation was greatly enhanced. It remained to be seen whether he could succeed with what, on the surface, appeared to be a more complex investigation.

A hand went up and another question was fired at him.

‘Are you certain this is not the work of foreign agents, Inspector?’

‘I’m absolutely certain,’ replied Marmion, levelly.

‘Yet the women were canaries. Killing them was a way of weakening the workforce at a munitions factory.’

‘I can see that you’ve never been to Hayes. It’s an enormous factory, employing well over ten thousand workers, the vast majority of whom are women. Blowing up five of them will hardly have an adverse affect on production.’

‘Point taken, Inspector.’

Keen to get back to the investigation, Marmion wound up the session by reminding them that an urgent appeal for help needed to be made. He also stressed that it would be both unkind and unproductive of them to pursue the families of the individual victims. They – and Maureen Quinn – needed to be left alone at such a sensitive time. Though everyone in the room nodded in agreement, Marmion was
not sure if they’d actually obey his instruction. There was always one journalist who’d go to any lengths to get an exclusive story.

When it was all over, Chatfield stepped in to congratulate him.

‘Well done,’ he said. ‘That was exemplary.’

‘Thank you, Inspector.’

‘You’ve obviously picked up a lot of tips from me.’

‘Of course,’ said Marmion.

It was not true but there was no point in arguing about it. In fact, Chatfield was not at his best during a press conference. He was too bossy and kept far too much back. Instead of wooing the press, he usually managed to antagonise them. Sublimely unaware that his manner was condescending, he always wondered why he received less than lavish praise in the newspapers.

‘What’s your next move, Inspector?’ he asked.

‘My first port of call is the Golden Goose. I want another chat with the landlord.’

‘What will Sergeant Keedy be doing?’

‘He’s going to talk to Mr Kennett, the works manager at the factory.’

‘I wish I could put more men at your disposal.’

‘We’ll manage, sir,’ said Marmion. ‘One trained detective is worth half a dozen uniformed constables who’ve spent most of their time pounding the beat and arresting drunks. We’ve a small but experienced team.’

‘But will it deliver a result? That’s my concern.’

‘All that I can guarantee is that we’ll do our utmost.’

‘I suppose I’ve no need to ask this,’ said Chatfield, raising an eyebrow, ‘but I hope you haven’t discussed this case with your daughter. I know that she’s followed in your footsteps and joined the police but she’s a complete novice and has no part to play in a murder investigation.’

As he looked Chatfield in the eye, Marmion’s face was impassive. ‘As you say, sir, there’s no need to ask that question.’

‘I’m relieved to hear it. In any case, she’s probably too busy thinking about her forthcoming marriage, isn’t she? Talking of which, I trust that the prospect is not distracting the sergeant in any way.’

‘Joe Keedy is a true professional, Superintendent.’

‘Yes – he reminds me of myself at that age.’

‘I can’t say that I see any similarity,’ said Marmion, waspishly. ‘You are quite unique, Superintendent. The car is waiting,’ he went on, moving to the door. ‘If you’ll excuse us, we have five murders to solve.’

Bernard Kennett was a tall, stooping, middle-aged man in a crumpled blue suit. He looked rather careworn and had a habit of running his hand through his hair. Invited into his office, Keedy was quick to make an appraisal of him, deciding that the works manager was more or less exactly as he’d imagined him to be when they spoke on the telephone. Kennett was polite, educated and eager to be of assistance. He waved his visitor to a chair, then sat behind a desk piled high with invoices and correspondence.

‘Let me get one thing clear, Sergeant,’ he began. ‘I’m not in overall control of production here. That duty falls to Mr Passmore. He’s the factory manager. I’m in charge of the section where the five unfortunate young women used to work.’

‘And you actually remembered one of them.’

‘Oh, nobody could forget Florence Duncan. She was their spokeswoman. I recall her sitting in that very seat and demanding a longer lunch break.’

‘Did she get it?’ wondered Keedy.

‘That’s immaterial.’ The older man combed his hair with his fingers
then reached for a folder on his desk. ‘Knowing that you were coming, I did a bit of detective work on my own behalf. I spoke to some of the women who worked alongside the five victims and made a few notes.’

‘That will be extremely helpful, sir,’ said Keedy. ‘Thank you.’

‘It’s only anecdotal, of course, but it will tell you something about their characters.’ He opened the folder. ‘I need hardly say what the mood is like in the Cartridge Section. Those five young women were very popular. The whole place is in mourning for them.’

‘That’s understandable.’

Kennett glanced at his notes. ‘The one I feel sorry for is Enid Jenks.’

‘We were told that she was a fine musician.’

‘That’s why she would have been so disappointed to miss the occasion. We’re not just slave-drivers here, Sergeant. Productivity must, of necessity, be kept up to a high level but we do try to take care of our workforce. They’re engaged in rather dull and repetitive work,’ he continued, ‘so we endeavour to take their minds off it by giving them periodic treats during their lunch break.’

‘What sort of treats?’

‘The one I have in mind is the visit of Madame Tetrazzini. Does that name mean anything to you?’

‘I’m afraid not,’ confessed Keedy.

‘Then I can see that you are not an opera lover. Madame Tetrazzini is a famous Italian soprano. She has an international reputation. We were lucky enough to secure a booking with her. She’s due to entertain our workers here next week. I fancy that Enid Jenks would have been thrilled to have the opportunity to hear the lady. It’s a complete contrast,’ said Kennett with a note of pride. ‘The women go from filling shells for long hours to listening to arias from Verdi and Rossini. We may tire their limbs but we also feed their souls.’

‘I wouldn’t know about that, sir. I’ve never been to an opera. But I’m glad that it’s not uninterrupted toil here.’ He extended a hand. ‘Can I see your notes, please?’

Kennett passed them to him. ‘Take them away, Sergeant. My handwriting is not too atrocious. Now, then, what else can I do to help?

‘I’d be interested to see what the five victims actually did when they were here,’ said Keedy, careful not to reveal that he believed the bomber might also work at the factory. ‘I’d like some insight into their daily routine.’

‘That can be arranged.’

Before he could stand up, Kennett was diverted by the urgent ring of his telephone. Apologising for the interruption, he picked up the receiver and listened. Keedy watched his expression change from interest to sudden concern.

‘Yes,’ said the works manager at length. ‘By all means, allow her in. I’ll see her immediately.’ He put the receiver down. ‘That was the security officer at the gate. There’s a Mrs Quinn asking to see me. She seems quite desperate.’

‘Would that be a Mrs Diane Quinn?’ asked Keedy.

‘It is, indeed. It appears that her daughter has disappeared from the house. Mrs Quinn is wondering if she came to work in spite of the fact that she was ordered not to by her father. Excuse me,’ said Kennett, moving to the door, ‘while I instruct my secretary to establish the facts. I want to put Mrs Quinn’s mind at rest.’